


Being A Matter Of Family, And The Proper Treatment Of Such

by lilithqueen



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Edmont Is Not A Great Dad, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Unrequited Crush, takes place just after getting back from rescuing emm from the vanu vanu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:47:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22170523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithqueen/pseuds/lilithqueen
Summary: Emmanellain has a bruise on his face the Vanu Vanu did not put there. Honoroit is not pleased.
Relationships: Honoroit Banlardois/Emmanellain de Fortemps
Comments: 13
Kudos: 24





	Being A Matter Of Family, And The Proper Treatment Of Such

**Author's Note:**

> My Warrior of Light, a female Duskwight elezen, is not like...a _huge_ fan of Count Edmont. Honoroit has noticed this. Emmanellain has not.

Emmanellain has a bruise on his face the Vanu Vanu did not put there, and Honoroit—who serves him, who cares for him, who _loves_ him (not, he is beginning to think, like a brother—though he will _die_ before he tells his lord that)—sees red.

The worst part is that he doesn’t even look upset. Resigned, yes, but not outraged. This has happened before and will no doubt happen again. Dragons will dance in the streets of the Holy See before Count Edmont de Fortemps approves of anything his youngest son does, and Emmanellain is resigned to it. He is curled on their favorite window seat in the library, staring down at the street below, and only tilts his head a little with a sigh when Honoroit presses a cool, damp cloth to his cheek.

“Thank you, my boy.” His voice is flat. Lifeless.

And all at once, it’s too much for Honoroit to bear. Sucking in a breath that fair scorches his lungs, he finally gives voice to the downright treasonous thought that’s been coiled like a serpent in his chest all week, ever since meeting the maiden called the Warrior of Light. “ _We ought to stop holding her back_.”

Well, that’s gotten some emotion back into his lord’s face, at least—granted, it’s a mix of shock and horror, brilliant blue eyes wide as he stares down at him. “I—I’m sorry, what?”

Honoroit knows he should stop talking. The walls always have ears in a manor, and who knows that better than the servants? If this conversation reaches the head steward’s ears, he’ll be out on the streets without a character reference no matter how much Emmanellain adores him. But he can no more stop his tongue than he can the tides, and his fingers shake where he’s still holding the rag to Emmanellain’s face. “Miss Soleil. You _saw_ her. And she—she saw _you_ , when you told her how your lord father reacted to your escapade—my lord, I do believe she would have smote him herself.”

“Really?” Apparently Honoroit’s expression is enough to convince Emmanellain that he’s telling the truth, because the ridiculous man actually flushes and drops his gaze to his lap. It would be adorable if it didn’t make Honoroit want to grab him by the shoulders and give him a good shake, moreso when he actually huffs and flicks his ears as though to clear them from such clearly preposterous notions. “Well, of course, she _is_ the Warrior of Light. Perhaps in _Gridania_ they do things differently, but no patriarch here would contest his right to—to discipline his children as he sees fit.”

His voice is shaking. Emmanellain’s voice is shaking, and Honoroit would, in this moment, cheerfully break Count Edmont’s nose. Or his kneecaps, which would be easier to reach. Instead, he drops the now-warm rag and takes Emmanellain’s larger hand in both of his small ones, drawing closer to meet his lord’s startled gaze. By some miracle, his own voice is even. “My lord, were my father to lift a hand to me as yours has done to you, you would want it _removed_.”

Emmanellain tries to pull away, but when Honoroit doesn’t immediately drop his hand he grabs it instead, too tight for a moment before remembering his own strength and relaxing his grip. The tremor has moved to his ears. “That’s.” He swallows hard. “That’s _different_ , Honoroit, you’re—you don’t deserve it—“

“ _Neither do you_.” Honoroit’s skin feels like it’s on fire, and he has to keep talking before he does something else stupid with his mouth (like using it to kiss his lord, his _employer_ , who’s called him a little brother and is presently looking at him like the sun). “My lord—you were the one who pulled me from the gutter, gave me—gave me food and shelter and _a life_ and don’t you dare say that it’s all anyone would have done because you know damn well that you were the only one who ever _looked_. You were the one who told me that if anyone were to—to mistreat me, that you would protect me. You told me that parents should guard and guide their children, that what mine did to me was _wrong_.” That had been shortly after his entrance into service, a late-night conversation that had left him nearly squashed by Emmanellain’s slightly-tipsy hug but feeling safer than he ever had before. “Don’t you deserve the same consideration?”

Emmanellain is red all the way to his eartips; though he’s long since stopped being able to meet Honoroit’s eyes, his grip on their joined hands hasn’t faltered. When he musters up a response, he sounds terribly close to tears. “I surely don’t deserve _you_.”

It nearly breaks Honoroit’s heart. _No_ , he wants to say. _You deserve all of me, everything I can give._ But the man who ruffles his hair and tells him after many drinks that he wishes Honoroit had been his _brother_ would turn him away—would probably do that annoying little laugh he does when he’s feeling too awkward for words—and Honoroit knows he couldn’t bear it. “I’m afraid I have to disagree with you, my lord. You are well and truly stuck with me.” Somehow, by the Fury’s mercy, he arranges his face into a smile. “And I think we both deserve someone who cares for our well-being, even to the point of recklessness. You taught me that.”

Emmanellain is sniffling and blinking rather a lot at that; when Honoroit offers him a cloth, he takes it with indecent haste and busies himself with wiping his face. “I never ought to have taught you logic. You weren’t supposed to use it _against_ me.”

Despite everything, the petulant edge to his lord’s voice is enough to make Honoroit’s smile genuine. “’Tis rather too late for that.”

Emmanellain’s nose and eyes are red when he balls up the rag in his fist, but the ghost of his usual smile is starting to tug at the corners of his lips and Honoroit’s heart almost can’t take it. “So I’m to go through life with you as my valiant defender, hm? And here I thought it was the other way around.”

Honoroit rarely prays. If the Fury is real, She probably isn’t listening to the likes of him. Still, Emmanellain’s words— _my valiant defender_ —send a lance to his heart; in the privacy of his own mind he whispers fervently, _Fury, let it be so._ Out loud, all he trusts himself with is, “That was when I was but a child, my lord, and you know I’m nearly a man grown. Allow me this service, as well.” (Internally, he curses his choice of words, for there are a great many ways he’d like to _serve_ Emmanellain; his lord’s many fine qualities do not include an ability to successfully hide licentious novels from curious eyes, and it’s enough for him to get ideas.)

As he’d half hoped, it makes Emmanellain chuckle and reach for him; a friendly ruffle of his hair isn’t the sort of touch he _really_ wants, but knowing he’s lightened his lord’s heart is enough to make him grin back at Emmanellain’s teasing, “You’ll be a man grown to me when you’re a man _grown._ Until you can look me in the eye without craning your neck, you’ll be my dear brave lad.”

It’s not what he wants, but it’s enough. He lets his voice take on a too-casual edge, glances at the far door. “...So I have your blessing to tell the Warrior—”

_“Honoroit!”_

Over Emmanellain’s shocked spluttering—something to the effect of his father maybe being an  _arse_ but not one that deserves the  _Warrior of Light_ —he finds himself laughing. No, it’s not what he wants, not with Emmanellain still under his father’s thumb and him with feelings for his lord that must never know the light of day, but just for this moment—just for now, with Emmanellain animated and knowing that someone (several someones) will help him—Honoroit is happy. Just for this moment, everything is alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me at [ship-to-hell](http://ship-to-hell.tumblr.com/).


End file.
